I’ve spent a lot of time antiquing in the past couple of weeks. I’m looking for that mythical piece of 16mm that I can afford to destroy in an effort to make my projector work. Apparently, people are attached to the family films. (Yes, even though they have no plot, and no sex appeal.)
I ran into some books, yesterday. Old books. Books that clearly came out of one person’s private collection. About a hundred years old, give or take. And they were labeled wrong, and priced out of my reach. (Particularly since whoever owned them was not a note-taker.) I think the seller was taking a cross-your-fingers-and-hope-for-the best approach to Bookselling.
The books made me think of one of my old professors. That’s more my imagination being dramatic than anything grounded in facts. The books were close to his field, but they weren’t quite right.
Still, I was left with a vague sadness, holding these books, turning their pages… because in order for them to be there, someone I would like to have known–someone I would have gotten along with–had to die.
I might check up on those prices, the next time I’m near the store. They’d probably like to come live with me.
Still no 16mm. I will keep looking, when I have the time and energy.